


Emissary Outsource

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Laura Hale, Alpha Laura, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Getting Together, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, New York, Snarky Derek, Trolls, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:46:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reduced by tragedy to a pack of two, Derek and Laura are doing their best to make a home in New York. Unfortunately, interspecies relations aren't a forgiving science. </p><p>Enter Stiles Stilinski, emissary and occasional social coach. And his stupid hat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emissary Outsource

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heitan_J](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heitan_J/gifts).



> This fic was prompted by [heitanj over on tumblr.](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/post/97186513822/sterek-au-emissary-outsource) <3
> 
> "If I can…maybe Derek and Laura find pack in NY, stay there and Stiles goes to college there? And Stiles is Ambassador-trained or whatever?"

It starts out with trolls.

Back in Beacon Hills, their pack was the supernatural police force of the town. It had been the unofficial family business for generations, and their library was  _filled_  with information on any manner of creature one could imagine. Except the library is gone now, along with pretty much anyone who could tell them how to proceed from here.

Derek groans, massaging his sore  _everything on the left side_  where a pissed off troll had bitch slapped him into a wall.

Laura’s eyebrows attempt to evacuate into her hairline at the sight of him. “I’m guessing the diplomatic option didn’t go over too well?”

“No, Laura. It didn’t.” He melts face first into the couch, ignoring her offended yelp when he shoves her with his feet.

“Boots  _off the couch_ , Derek. Don’t be a slob. Oh sh—  _why do you smell like garbage_?!”

Derek lifts his face from the throw pillows with no small amount of effort. “There were trash cans in the way when it tossed me like a ragdoll. So sorry to offend your precious sensibilities.”

“Oh ew. Ew ew ew.” Laura is nice enough to toss a pillow on the floor before rolling him off the couch. “Just no. This is a rental.”

Derek groans from his place on the rug, unwilling to put in the effort to get angry until his injuries finish healing. “Gotta fucking love New York.”

“Cultural diversity at its finest.” Laura sighs. “All right, so I broke down and called Deaton.”

Derek freezes, tensing up. “You couldn’t have done that  _before_  sending me to get my ass served up on a platter?”

“Okay, all right. Mistakes were made. Deaton told me we probably shouldn’t proceed on our own.”

Derek snorts. “He flying in?”

“Not exactly. He put me in touch with someone local.”

“Can emissaries outsource?”

“Apparently this guy is from Beacon Hills, too. He’s taking classes at NYU or something.”

“So he’s an intern?”

“No, Deaton’s already got one of those. Remember Scott McCall? Picks up the phone sometimes? Sweet kid.”

“That’s a vet tech, Laura.”

She rolls her eyes, flapping a hand at him. “That’s not the point. The  _point_  is that we’ve got a meeting set up with his contact, who apparently has an in with the troll tribe.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here.”

“It’s kind of early tomorrow morning.”

“You’re making me get up early after getting me smacked around an alley in the middle of the night?”

“In a word? Yes.”

“In two words, fuck you.”

Laura snickers, reaching down to smack the ‘good’ side of his ass before getting up and heading back to her room. “I’ll even let you have first shower.”

“The hot water’s broken anyway!”

He growls into the old throw pillow at the sound of her door clicking shut.

-

Derek is determined to be nice when they meet up with Deaton’s contact. He may not speak to the man much, but he remembers his mother telling him how revered an emissary should be; what power they held at their core.

He remembers staring up at the vet from behind his mother’s legs when he was very small and sensing a vastness there. The man had always been solemn and cryptic, rarely smiling.  This… is not what he expected.

They spot their contact right away, because he perks up from his relaxed position to wave like a maniac, grinning and laughing as Laura leads Derek over. The grip she has on the back of his jacket is unfortunately necessary, because he’s more than a little spooked.

A flannel that loud would spook anybody.

The guy’s got a shirt on underneath it that says ‘ _I am wingardium levio-so done with you_ ’, a sock monkey hat with little pom poms on the strings, and a smiley face tattooed on the first knuckle of his right middle finger. “You’re Laura and Derek, right?”

“Only if you’re Stiles.”

“Guilty.”

“Only of crimes against fashion,” Derek mumbles, then hisses sharply when his sister stamps on his foot. “Hi.”

The smile doesn’t lessen at all. Instead, Stiles makes a wiggling motion with his fingers, gesturing for them to occupy the remaining two chairs at the table. “So Deaton tells me you’ve got troll trouble.”

“Mostly Derek. They mopped the floor with Derek.”

“Ouch, man. What’d you do?”

“What did  _I_  do?” Derek scowls. “I don’t know, ask the purple people eater that—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Party foul. We do not bring up skin conditions with trolls. They’re sensitive.”

“I figured that out when he was  _swinging me by the ankles_.”

“She.”

“I’m sorry?”

“She. If she was purple, it was Sherry.”

“She was wearing a fez.”

“They shop at thrift places and mom and pop stores mostly. They’re big on kitsch. You have no idea how much they love Troll dolls.”

Laura snickers and Derek does not pout as he motions for the waitress to bring him  _all of the coffee._ “I’ll take your word for it.”

“Is Derek your pack rep right now?”

Laura’s shoulders slump. “He’s pretty much pack everything right now. We’re only loosely affiliated with the Lawrence pack, so we’re all we’ve got.”

“I remember.” Stiles reaches out to rest his fingers briefly on the back of her hand. “It sounds like you could use a little help with the whole social networking thing. Trolls are actually pretty cool, you know?”

“Are you offering to tutor me?” Derek asks. “Really?”

Stiles purses his lips, which looks even more ridiculous with his stupid hat. “I don’t see anyone more qualified climbing into your lap, dude. I’m pretty good at what I do.”

Laura is quick to jump in, unwilling to let her brother’s morning grumps and residual soreness sour this for them. “You’re enrolled near here, right? What’s your major?”

“Criminal Justice with a double minor in Anthro and Mythology.” He nearly  _sings_ , like the combination doesn’t make Derek want to say  _gesundheit_. Because honestly —

“What?”

Stiles sighs. “There’s really no pc way to tell the general population I’m majoring in making sure mystical creatures don’t get in bar fights and shit.”

Derek is grateful enough not to growl at the waitress when she finally returns with his coffee. He lowers his face into the steam, inhaling the smell of mercy and consciousness with an absent, low-throated moan that he probably has  _no idea_  is happening.

Stiles stares at him openly, swallowing around the dryness in his throat. “So yeah. Networking lessons. I can totally do that.”

“That’s great and all, but we really need—”

“An emissary. I get that. I’ll ask around for you, if you want, but I don’t know if I can… you know. But temporarily, I guess I could make sure you get your asses kicked as little as possible.”

Laura smiles.

Derek’s going to learn how to play nice with the other overgrown children. How nice.

-

After that, Stiles becomes a familiar presence in their lives. Especially for Derek. He goes from teaching Derek about interspecies intercultural relations to taking him on a quest for the perfect pizza topping combo to hanging with drag queens, all in the name of improving his social skills.

At first, Derek resists as hard as possibly can, but it’s no use. Sock monkey hat or no, the kid is a force of nature, and every time Derek digs in his heels, Stiles levers himself against his back and  _pushes_ , and Derek can’t slow down.

For the first time in a long time, Derek is laughing and chasing and, on a few memorable occasions, ducking the police. Laura wants to give the kid a medal. She settles for having him over for dinner once a week, at minimum. Stiles is always grateful not to eat at the school cafeteria, and Derek is always grateful for an opportunity to make dumb googoo eyes at the coed teaching him how to be nice to people again.

Stiles’ method works  _spectacularly_  when it comes to the communities he introduces them to. He works hard to build them a lasting network of allies and friendly neighbors, from the demons nested near Canal Street to the hipster mers avoiding the Hudson like the plague.

But he insists that Derek’s not quite ready for the trolls yet. Derek thinks he’s picking on him. Laura’s positive that if the sexual tension gets any thicker, her brother will manage to hang himself with it.

Derek takes the opportunity to spend more and more time alone with Stiles, helping him study for tests, bringing him overpriced coffee, and allowing the spark to practice low-level charms and runes on him.

They’re in the middle of an interspecies  _knitting_  meetup (of all things) when word gets out that there’s a hunter in town. Roughly five minutes later, a douche in a worn jean jacket kicks in the door with a shotgun in his hands. The little bell above the door jangles pleasantly as he sights Derek right off and demands that he come along quietly.

Stiles urges him to go, glancing at the trembling faeries and irate kappa. Thistlewit looks like she’s about to flip the table. It’s best not to shake up this particular group of individuals. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ll be right behind you. Get out of here and haul ass for the park.”

The hunter grows impatient and growls some stock line about shooting his pretty boyfriend, and Derek puts one foot in front of the other. Just like Stiles says, the moment he’s far enough from the cafe, he makes a break for Central Park. Like no one saw that coming.

-

When the asshole finally runs him down by the duck pond, Derek is 500% done. He turns around, prepared to lunge for the man’s throat, facing down the barrel of the shotgun with an impressive snarl.  

Except instead of a gunshot, there’s a massive crashing thud and the hunter is  _underneath_  one of the big boulders from the opposite side of the lake. A large troll in a floral mumu is beaming at him and waving from where it just murdered the man.

Derek can’t tell if he’s more relieved or disturbed. “No fucking way.”

Stiles clears his throat from beside the creature, holding up a hand to high five part of its oversized palm. “Thanks, Frank.”

Frank nods and rolls the boulder off to hoist the hunter’s corpse over its shoulder and toddles off to… well, Derek really doesn’t want to think about it.

Stiles stands before him with his hands hitched in his pockets, his shoulders sloped forward, and his head cocked. It might be a humble gesture if he didn’t have such a shit-eating grin on his face. “Like I said, man: Trolls are pretty cool.”

“I love you.” Derek blurts.

Stiles blinks. “What?”

“I mean thanks.”

“Y-yeah. I… cool?”

“But I mean the other thing too. Because I’m communicating.”

Stiles tries hard not to laugh and fails completely. He practically launches himself into Derek’s arms, latching on and kissing him like it’s going out of style. “You’re such a loser, oh my g-d.”

“So why do you stick around?”

“Because you need me.”

“Of course I need you.” Derek frowns.

“I… oh. That’s not fair. You’re supposed to be all sarcastic and mean.”

“When you’re mean to people, they won’t do you favors. That was lesson one.”

“All the more reason to be nice to me if you want me to rep for your pack, man.”

“Does that mean I get to keep you?”

“Eh. Mostly after class and on the weekends. Earlier, if you bring that butter pecan frap thing. Food of the gods, holy shit.”

“I can do that.” Derek smiles. He’s learning.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. That was, in fact, a Troll in Central Park reference.


End file.
